J. S. Bach: English Suites nos. 1–6; French Suites nos. 1–6
Alan Curtis, harpsichord (Christian Zell, 1728).
Apex 0927 40808 2, 0927 40814 2, 0927 40813 2. Originally released on Teldec. Recorded July 1979, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg. 3 compact discs.
Here’s a reissue that reminds us—if we needed reminding—that the early music movement wasn’t always about breathless tempos and aggressive rhetoric.
Alan Curtis made these recordings in 1979, when the field was still young enough to value contemplation alongside virtuosity. He plays a Christian Zell harpsichord from 1728, splendidly renovated, and the Teldec engineers in Hamburg captured its voice with uncommon sensitivity. Not too close, so you’re counting every plectrum strike. Not too distant either. Just right—which in harpsichord recording is rarer than you’d think.
Curtis understands something fundamental about these suites: they weren’t written for concert halls that didn’t yet exist. Bach composed them for private music-making, probably around 1717 during his Weimar or early Cöthen years. The keyboard was becoming the dominant solo instrument, but the idiom remained intimate, exploratory rather than ostentatious. Curtis honors that.
His tempos feel considered without being studied, allowing the instrument’s particular sonority—bright but not brittle, resonant without blur—to speak clearly. The so-called English Suites (nobody knows why they’re called that, though some speculate about a dedication to “a distinguished Englishman”) are the more substantial works, each opening with a proper prelude before launching into the dance sequence. Curtis shapes these preludes with real architectural sense. Listen to how he builds the prelude to the A Major Suite, the first one: he establishes the toccata-like opening gestures firmly, then relaxes into the fugal writing without ever losing momentum. The allemandes that follow—always the real test of a player’s musical intelligence—breathe naturally, their ornamentation integrated rather than applied.
The French Suites, lighter in texture if not necessarily in spirit, show Curtis at his most persuasive. These pieces take their cue from Lully’s dance suites, but Bach being Bach, they transcend their models completely. The G Major Suite’s gavotte has an almost vocal quality here, the phrasing shaped as if the harpsichord were singing. Which it can’t, of course—but Curtis makes you forget that limitation.
What strikes me most across all twelve suites is the consistency of conception married to real sensitivity to each work’s individual character. Curtis doesn’t impose a single interpretive template. The E-flat Major English Suite sounds properly grand; the C Minor French Suite has genuine pathos in its slower movements. He varies his touch subtly—something you can actually hear on this particular instrument, which responds to different attacks with different timbral qualities.
Terry Barfoot’s original review mentions that “one can ask for nothing more in Bach, of all composers,” and while that’s perhaps overselling things slightly, the sentiment isn’t wrong. These aren’t revelatory performances in the sense of overturning received wisdom. But they’re deeply musical, technically secure, and recorded with real understanding of how a harpsichord actually sounds in space.
The three-disc Apex reissue offers exceptional value—superbudget pricing for what remains, nearly a quarter century later, a thoroughly satisfying traversal of these works. Yes, there are more recent recordings with different virtues: Christophe Rousset’s greater harmonic daring, Pierre Hantaï’s rhythmic bite. But Curtis’s fundamental rightness—his refusal to impose mannerisms or chase after effects—gives these performances real staying power.
The sound has held up remarkably well. A touch of analog warmth, perhaps, but nothing that dates the release unpleasantly. And Curtis’s playing—thoughtful, articulate, always in service of the music—sounds as fresh now as it must have in 1979. This is Bach playing for adults. Recommended without reservation.
